Evolution'ry Process
by leaky.oven
Summary: "It was like I woke up last week and Old Shaun was back." - "So the first thing you do when faced with a beehive is step on it?" SxD, 1stPOV, SLASH
1. Ch 1

**: X :**

_Revised and updated; still kind of slack-jawed  
at the number of obvious writing errors, eha.  
And you all loved it anyway. Bless.  
_

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE: **Chain Reaction

* * *

It was science.

Bloody fucking chemical components lacing their evil little fingers through my synapses. Floodgate release of hormones, pheromones, adrenaline and all else - set on the tripwires in my nasal cavities. Scent told brain what to do; brain told body it was time to make babies. I, myself? One of the individuals to have been born with all important reproductive wires ... essentially ... crossed.

Some evolutionary response to the overpopulation of the planet, perhaps. Fucking, what, bloody fucking tripping synapses left and right _dear god_ Miles my brain wants you to bear my children. Sex was (is? used to be?) reproduction and the fact that it felt good was so humanity would keep doing it - passing along only the fittest gene pools and producing only the better offspring, the next steps forward in evolution; the highly intelligent snarky queers where nature finally came at a standstill, threw her arms up and declared perfection.

Which came first; the chicken or the egg? Am I the height of human evolution because I'm gay, or gay because I'm the height of human evolution? Trick question: a lizard laid the egg and it hatched into a bird, which fucked another bird that eventually made a chicken. Got another one here for you; if a rooster lays an egg on top of a barn, does the egg roll east or west?

I think you know where I'm going with this.

"Roosters don't lay eggs, Becky," I pull up the 'y' at the end of Rebecca's nickname, because it is girly and that creature shrinks from anything feminine like a vampire from sunlight.

"Aw fuck, man, you ruined it." Rebecca throws a crumpled ball of paper my way but it only sails as far as Desmond's laid-out, groggy self.

Desmond's caveman brow un-wrinkles, the lines of his face smoothing into a grin. "Next time just hold your fingers up and ask me how many." He's laid-out because his own internal wiring just tricked his respiratory system into overdrive. While Ezio was running along the rooftops of Venice, Desmond's body was taking the cardio and we had to pull him out. For the third time this week.

"Christ, Miles, you're not a drunk sodding driver. This is extensive neurological trauma we're dealing in, and I'd appreciate it if you both could act seriously for two seconds. _Bloody preschool playground every minute Lucy isn't here to babysit you two._"

"It was a _joke_, Shaun." Rebecca is speaking slowly, as if to make certain I'm not merely criticizing her methods by _accident_.

"From the back of a toffee wrapper?" The setback was making me edgy; the fact that the hormones in Desmond's sweat had just told my idiotic reptilian brain-bits to light up like _mardi-gras christmas fucking fenceposts_ might have contributed to this. I mean, you know, impending end of the world, backlog of desk work; the distractions of food and sleep minimally tolerated and my traitorous un-evolved body was throwing the third primal need like a curveball strike to my patience. Next up to bat: sarcastic defense. A well nearly run dry, for all that my team-mates were familiar if not fast friends with the big bad history geek's aggressive sense of humor.

No, you know, I _know_ I'm a right bastard. The fact that fate landed me with the two thickest adrenaline junkies ever born as colleagues in a last-line defense against the end of the world? _Not_ exactly incentive for me to be any less the bastard. It was all just fucking cupcakes and naptime for those two; and me without my worrier-in-arms, my comrade-cum-latte of the late night, my defender of blonde diplomacy, my -

Okay so it just wasn't any fun picking on the special kids in the playground if Lucy wasn't there to escalate things on their behalf (behalves...? Fuck it, Desmond, you smell amazing). Rebecca raised an eyebrow and shrugged, not particularly offended by much of anything.

Desmond (and fuck his superhero name anyway, god, and that _jawline_) blinked slowly and kept two fingers to his pulse. "Has it ever done this before?"

"The animus, or your brain?" I didn't have to make nice with the Subject, but I did have to keep him alive. Lucy often reasoned that a cooperative brain was more efficient, but if it were left up to me to choose between an individual's emotional comfort and the lives of millions of people - Desmond would be on life support, hooked into the Animus so deeply that we'd have to all learn Italian and start addressing him as Ezio. No fucking around with the Bleeding Effect because we wouldn't have to traumatize the brain by ripping it out of the constructed reality day after day. No breaks, no exercise, no recess on the playground.

Just us, the pieces of Eden, and our unfortunate organic gateway.

"Um, everything. I'm just laying here and I feel like, I don't know, panic attack or something."

"Or something," I mutter, pen to my lips. "You weren't exactly taking a slow stroll down the boulevard there, Desmond." I've decided to stand because standing is proactive, a physical cue to internal effort. Comprehension dawns on Rebecca and she twists in her chair to set to work. "I think we need to reaffirm your body's responses with your own brain, and - "

"Strengthen the walls of disassociation within the animus, got it." On go the headphones, and Rebecca's blessed cyborg persona takes over. When the woman is hooked in and actually doing her job, she's a work of art. I've yet to consolidate Becky's super-efficient Dr. Jekyll to her lazy and mildly retarded Mr. Hyde, but that might have to do with the glaring possibility that the woman is a dyke and our kind get along about as well as cats and water. Her own corner of the evolutionary finish line, as it were.

I breathe discretely through my mouth as I cross the room, plucking one side of the headphones from Rebecca's ear. "You don't need to strengthen anything if we haven't the memory; just switch up the algorithms." It'd be more work for Desmond to meter out 100% synch, but he also wouldn't risk cardiac arrest or half the bruises and literal bleeding effects that can show up when the brain is damned convinced the body just fell from the twelfth story into a sodding _haycart_.

"So, I should... take a walk?" Desmond's skepticism, while well-founded, is still irritating.

I have to inhale to answer, and then inhale again to sigh angrily, and then again to yawn because the sigh reminded me that I'd only gotten four hours of sleep last night and by then I'd forgotten what I was supposed to say because, well, we'd already been over that part. "You should take a bleeding shower. You reek."

Desmond blanches, either offended or just surprised. "Should I run laps or something first? Get my heart back up to date with what my limbs are actually doing?"

"Mmhm. You know the drill, no more than twenty laps around the dias." I'm already at the phone on my desk, dialing Lucy's cell. "Then make a sandwich and read a book or something until Lucy returns. Anchor yourself in what familiar reality you can muster stuck underground with our lot, and you should be good to go. Ring if you start to hallucinate; I'll keep an ear out for a loud thud should you faint."

"You hear that, Des? Shaun just told us that he's an aggro poindexter because it's what's _familiar_! He's an asshole because he cares!" Rebecca cackles from her station, headphones still askew. This was unfair for many reasons, chief of which my inability to defend myself as I was calmly explaining to an hysterical director why we wouldn't have the scheduled memories processed before she made it back with the fresh supplies.

Over the shrill mental breakdown on the other end of my phoneline, I catch the tail-end of a comment from Desmond as he strolls from the animus room - something that made every fibre of my insides give a synchronized lurch in his direction. "Hang on, Luce, I'm under attack over here," I cover the mouthpiece, "What was that just now? Oi!" Desmond doesn't turn, but his scent lingers in the back of my skull like thick grease in the back of an oven. In all fairness, yes Desmond I need to get laid. But that is not the reason I'm an asshole.

"_Under attack? Shaun, what is going on over there?_"

"Hi. Yes, no, not literally. I'm being sexually harassed by the wonder twins - don't think I can't feel your eyes on my arse Becky."

Rebecca flips me the bird and Lucy makes a noise between laughter and a growl. "_You two stop messing around._"

"Yes ma'am." I hang up. The computer chair is still warm and my knuckles crack louder in the silence between the stone walls and the skitter of Rebecca's furious typing. Distantly, the rapport of sneakers on pavement and rasp of air through lungs steadies out in time with the work station's coolant fans.

* * *

A half an hour later and Desmond is still running laps despite my specific instructions to quit after twenty. A jog and a sandwich, a book and a nap; you may be asking why the bastard of the group just handed the slacker of the group a freeday. I don't have to like Lucy's methods but I sure as anything would never sabotage her efforts, especially since _my_ preferred method of operations would have been infinitely more precarious and expensive (and we'd still be sloughing around in circles through Ezio's betrayal dramas and whore binges regardless). Am I putting kid gloves on for Desmond's benefit? No. Are the squishy bits of my brain covertly influencing my temper in the vain hopes that the pheromone factory coming around on his last lap will start receiving as many signals as his body is outputting? Bugger all, I hope not.

I tap my wristwatch and glare.

As Desmond passes, the absolute fucking neanderthal feels it appropriate to reach out and _tag_ me. He might have been reaching for my shoulder but the swipe landed somewhere along collar and neck and it's goodbye highly-evolved patience. As a man whose personal space was just invaded semi-violently, my response was, ah, on the aggressive side.

Desmond: lucky I lead a sedentary lifestyle. Unlucky I used to run track and field. I lunge; Desmond makes headway with a burst of laughter, fabric escaping my fingertips. Desmond vaults a crate like a monkey, all arms and legs. I vault that same crate like a goddamn Olympian. My knees and back would sing of regret in the morning, but I would forever cherish the look of surprise glimpsed over Desmond's shoulder as he discovers I'm keeping pace. That is, before Desmond hunches himself lower to the ground and leaves me in the proverbial dust, in no proxy to receive a good walloping.

Could Desmond Miles kick my ass? Yes. Would he? No; as evidenced by his flight without much fight. I slow to a trot, then a panting stop, removing my glasses to wipe a sweat-damp brow, keeping the white hoodie-shaped blob in my peripheral. "I'll have you keep your machismo showmanship to yourself, thanks."

"Aw, come on man." Desmond is out of breath, hands on knees and shoulders wagging as if to bolt anew. "That was fun." The blob is getting closer. My glasses are all smeared from where I had mashed them up against my own face to keep them on while I ran, and of no help. "Admit it, you were smiling."

"That was a grimace. A hate-grimace. Of hate." Half-blind, my elbow goes up instinctively. The sudden rush of primary school memories has me rethinking the whole chase-down-the-trained-assassin-and-thrash-him idea. "_Sod off_ with you, fucking, adrenaline junkies," I parry the grab with a curse, hating what I knew would come next; a feint, a headlock, a noogie. All the carefully shored up intimidation would be dashed to the everloving rocks in one fell bro-hold, and I was powerless to stop it.

Rebecca pokes her head in at the noise of a toolbox spilling its guts to the floor. "You two quit fucking shit up in here." I had given the old college try in dislodging Desmond, but he was serenely requesting that I call 'uncle' and we were knocking about the warehouse like stags in rut. I never played bitch for the jocks at uni, and I certainly wasn't going to surrender my pride to this upstart of a Subject, _especially_ in front of a witness. "Des, you're going to break something. You are going to break Shaun."

"I'm not going to break Shau - ow! He bit me!"

"Let him go, man, he's turning colors."

Desmond pants, chuckling, "Nah. Didn't draw blood, has yet to say 'uncle'."

I wasn't about to strong-arm my way out of this, so I toss my glasses to Rebecca (who catches them with a 'woah') and go for the boned fish approach. It's not as sexy as it sounds; mostly I just let loose from the grapple first and stand there in the headlock with my face pressed into Desmond's damp side until he gets bored. Like playing dead when a bear attacks. This would have worked, if Desmond didn't insist on pulling me across the room and back just to keep me from getting too comfortable, punctuating my disarray with the occasional insult and noogie and usual request for my surrender.

Red-faced and properly winded, I grunt, "You make sure to never fall asleep after this, Miles."

Rebecca yawns theatrically. "Dude he is never going to say uncle. We need to clean this space up before Lucy gets back, 'cos if she finds you two dicking around in here - "

I snipe, "Especially the part where you aren't letting me get back to work."

I can hear the nod in Rebecca's voice, "Yeah, exactly."

I suppose Rebecca's (disjointed, vague) disapproval is so rare that it's become potent medicine, because Desmond releases me with a final mutual shove. My neck feels cold at the absence of his arm, breathing fast and deep. I feel a little high, either by oxygen deprivation or the obvious alternative.

"You okay, man? Are you concussed?" Why Rebecca thought checking for fever had anything to do with concussion, I could not tell you. I accept my glasses and reassure her that dilated pupils are the body's natural reaction to anger and fighting and so forth. Not about to confess that my head was filled with nonsense, tipping over like a flooded boat and pulling my pupils wide in order to signal to any potential baby-makers out there to get with the fertilization. Crossed fucking wires.

I head toward the tiny ridiculous water-closet we all have to share when I think I - no, no no _no, fuck him_. Desmond and I go shoulder to shoulder down the hall, and to prevent a Three Stooges moment of getting stuck in the washroom's doorway I yank him back by the collar of his sweatshirt. "Clean up that mess you made, and then shower."

"I'll shower and then I'll clean it up." He's ducked around me to get to the door and damn it, damn _everything_, we're shoving around like we'd forgotten how to be two fully grown adults perfectly capable of calm discussion. "You're the one complaining that I reek."

"The one thing I can't stand over someone else's body odor - is - my own -" But I lose the struggle, limbs already too sore to put up a good fight. "Hurry the fuck up." 'Bang' goes my fist against the closing door.

* * *

"Shaun."

No, no, shut up. Go away. The painkillers were just starting to work, and my brain was reluctant to acknowledge conscious thought. Especially input. Especially _talking_.

Lucy walks in and crosses her arms, completely unawares of my venomous fantasy involving her and the antique hay-thrasher in the yard. "Hey. Becka told me you crashed early?"

"Mmnf. Loosh." Clearly, sharply, I make some hint as to my current level of hospitality: "Go. Away."

"All right, we can talk about this in the morning. Desmond wanted me to tell you the shower was free."

"_Away_, Lucy," I whine. News from my tormentor; not exactly glad tidings. There is a weight on the side of the cot.

"Did you two fight?" She's trying to be nice, I know that. Keeping the team stitched together and functioning amicably wasn't easy work, especially when our personalities clashed like the four fucking elements. She's concerned, and why not? _I'm_ concerned.

I rub the bridge of my nose and sigh. "He pulled some fucking playground bullying crap and I should have walked away, Luce, I really should have." I scrub my face and squeeze my eyes tight before opening them to the dim light peeking in through the corridor, lining Lucy's bent silhouette.

"I thought you two were getting along."

I scoff. If that was 'getting along' in her book, I didn't ever want to see what she counted as bickering. "Did Rebecca reset the algorithms, or did we have enough memory to reinforce the barriers?"

"Shaun, I'm not talking about that right now."

"No, I know; you're right. I'm the level-headed one. I shouldn't have reacted like that." I turn on my side and bunch the sheets up to my neck, sighing into the pillow.

"That's not what I'm getting at here. He could have really hurt you."

I laugh and flip to my back, exasperated. "Desmond? Really?"

"If it had been an episode of the Bleeding Effect, yes. Really."

"_Jesus_, Lucy, I don't have enough fingers on which to count how many things are wrong with your assumptions right now." I inhale, bracing, "Foremost of these is the fact that I know the difference between Desmond, Altair and Ezio. Frankly I'm a little insulted you doubt my professional judgment." I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the cot, slouching to illustrate just how deeply she had wounded my pride.

"Well." Lucy leans in, uncrossing one leg from the other as if to stand. She pauses, not quite ready to apologize or back down, but clearly unwilling to argue further. "You should probably take advantage of the shower while it's free."

"Hn. I must smell terrible." This is said with a small amount of glee, because it serves her right for waking me up.

"No, it's not a bad - uh. I just. Becka usually commandeers the washroom in the morning." Lucy has stood with all haste, brushing off her backside as if to remove the man-cooties.

I narrow my already squinting gaze. "Lucy," I groan. "Leave off the womanly concern for a minute and please, kindly, tell me you didn't just imply _attraction_."

Lucy barks a laugh. "_Shaun Hastings_, you are gayer than a maypole and colder than a dead fish."

"Welcome back."

* * *

In keeping with the theme of my total humiliation, the only towel in the washroom was the one Desmond left behind. There was no practical reason why this should have bothered me, other than the mild discomfort of drying off with something rather cold from its pre-use. I draped the thing over my head to dry my hair and collapsed to my knees, ripping the towel away with a small groan. 'Musky' - a term often used to describe hideous disco-era perfumes and the wool coat left in the back of the closet, but in this case meant 'that which drives Shaun completely fucking nutters'.

And oh, bad. Bad, bad, awful. Subject Desmond Miles is _not_ for fucking. He wasn't even for befriending; he was as off-limits as anyone born with PROPERTY OF ABSTERGO stamped across their foreheads. Maybe it was the fact that I was drugged six ways from Sunday, or that I'd spent the last half month in close quarters with a seriously attractive specimen of _hominidae sapiens_; my dick was in my hand before I had time to convince myself this was a bad idea.

I rub one out quickly and discretely into the towel, but instead of meeting the calm that usually accompanies release, I only get keyed up. I wanted to _fuck_, and I wanted the stress of the past few years of my life to be obliterated by the orgasm. I had to remind myself that fucking Desmond would only compound that stress, amplify it. The ceramic edge of the tub is icy against the side of my face; it wakes me up. Because maybe falling asleep naked in the bathroom with my dick in my hand is Nobel-Prize winning levels of stupid. Auto-asphixiated rockstars die with more dignity.

* * *

The question is there at the crack of my consciousness, and how the _fuck_ does Desmond even know I'm awake. "Is there a reason we can't be friends?"

My voice is scratchy and gummy and the noises I _want_ to make aren't the noises I actually _do_ make, the growly coming out more like a purr. Because _fuck my life._ "Good morning Desmond. Go away."

"No, I mean, I'm just asking because Lucy asked me the same thing and I told her I wasn't trying to piss you off or anything and there's really no reason you should be pissed off. I was just fucking around and you really do need to exercise more I mean if we have to pack up and bolt I think everyone on the team needs to be able to get away safe. Is all."

I crane my neck to Desmond's empty cot, and then lean with a groan to find him performing crunches on the floor. "Did you leave any coffee for me, you absolute spaz?"

"Yeah, there's plenty. I don't drink - "

"Nevermind." I collapse back to the mattress and check my wristwatch, waiting for the anxious little beetles of guilt and fear to get me out of bed for the start of another working day. Ten hours of sleep, what a waste of time.

"So, I mean..." The chop of Desmond's words have changed and I close my eyes against the blur of _that body_ in pushup position. "Any specific" huff "reason, or are" huff "you just more" huff "comfortable" huff "being a" huff, huff "bastard?"

"Yes." I knew my legs would be hurting, but hadn't prepared for everything else to ache so completely. Was I getting old? Wasn't sexual appetite supposed to _diminish_ with all those other missing vigors?

"Which?"

"Pick one."

"Becka says it's a defense mechanism," Desmond's breathing meters out as the customary after-workout stretching plants his little grunts of pleasure into my screaming consciousness. "But I'm the, only one, you're really, all that harsh to. What gives, man?"

I spot an easy out, "Uh, you aren't a woman." I crack an evaluating eye, "I think. Also you're a useless lazy blob attached to valuable grey matter. I thought we've been over this before?"

"Yeah." Desmond stands with one last stretch, joints cracking audibly. "And I thought you pulled that stick outta your ass a few months ago. Suddenly it's crammed back up there and I'm back to being subhuman. What the fuck is _with_ that, Shaun? There is no fucking reason why we can't be friends."

"Because I don't like you, is why." Exasperated, I drawl, "_Get over_ yourself already; we can't all be swoony blonde tarts standing in line to join your stupid fan-club." I roll up to a sit, wincing. Oh god, today was going to be one of _those days_.

"No. And. I'm going to tell Lucy you said that."

"Mmhm, run off to mummy and tattle. But do it after today's session; if she's going to lecture I'd rather she do it during cleanup than prep." It wasn't as if I had even been referring to Lucy, just the usual run of American swooners, the Monroes and Gwens, et cetera.

"No, Shaun. _God_, it was fine for a while! What the fuck did I do?"

Whine a little louder, Desmond, it's doing wonders for curing my attraction towards you. "Headlock. Me. A grown man of enormous dignity and brittle pride. Short temper. What did you _expect_?"

"I mean _before_ that. It was like, I woke up last week, and Old Shaun was back."

"So the first thing you do when faced with a beehive is step on it?" I'm half dressed by now with my glasses cleaned and placed in time to see Desmond's expression scrunch up like it does when he's being particularly thick.

"I just want to get along with you semi-decently. Tell me what to do for that to happen."

"Excellent! Progress." I clap my hands. "Do your job and don't talk to me; we'll get along swimmingly."

Desmond mouths 'asshole', shoving both hands in his pockets and turning his head away, shoulders shrugged up defensively. I leave, already angry over the time we've wasted.

* * *

Lucy strikes at the breakfast counter, a surprise attack. "I understand what's going on." A surprise attack of _words_ and _sympathy_ and _wording sympathy_.

The toast freezes halfway to my mouth, hand shaking so bad that little flecks of jam dot my glasses. My voice is higher than it ought to be. "Keep your womanly intuition and other such witchery far away from me, please and thank you."

"You _like_ him and you're afraid he'll _die_."

"Christ, Lucy! I'm _eating_!" I wave the bit of toast impotently.

Desmond's body rests in the animus, Rebecca on monitor duty lest something interesting happen. That leaves me only a few spare minutes to scarf down some food before returning to a keyboard for the next twelve hours and I did _not_ have time for any touching introspective dialogue.

Lucy strikes for critical damage. "Nobody is going to die. We're working to stop that, and if we fail then everybody will die and you won't have to worry about being left alone or whatever your damage is."

"Are you being cruel by accident, or have I not woken up yet? Is this a dream? Are you God?" I was definitely off my appetite by then, and set a napkin to use on my glasses and sweaterfront, standing to attend my face at the sink.

"I'll tell him, if you want me to."

"_No_."

"He admires you, you know. Holds you in high esteem - though _why_ is beyond me." Lucy wisely gazes over the rim of her coffee mug and I hope she chokes on the brew.

"I _know_ all that."

"Then what's the problem?"

"That IS the problem! We have work to do. _I_ have work to do. I can't afford to get - _involved_ - and really, this whole discussion of the matter is just, really, terribly unprofessional." I practically run to the safety of my station.

Lucy stops at the archway, hand held up. "Wait, Shaun, what exactly were we talking about just now? I'm saying you should be Desmond's friend, not - "

I scoff, "Oh, sure, like _you_ have any control over that. Kindly keep your power-tripping out of my personal affairs, and I'll keep my personal affairs clear of your power-tripping zone." I frame the room with a sweep of my arms, Rebecca removes her headphones and glances up expectantly.

"You pluggin' in, Hastings?"

I sigh. "No, Beck. Go back to what you were doing. I mean, if it's okay for me to tell you to do that - I mean Lucy can jump in anytime and boss you around a little if it will reaffirm her authority."

Brought down from on high at last, Lucy sneers, "Fuck off, Shaun."

Rebecca's mind is blown by the, like, _ totally_ aggro vibes in the air, and she looks, like, _taken aback_. "Woah, guys, what'd I miss?"

I'm about to cut off Lucy's response when the computer screen delivers the most blindingly awesome news my tiny historian heart can hardly take: Ezio is conversing with members of _the Borgia_ family. Yes, Borgia, as in the worst Pope ever and the family steeped in the greatest intrigues and most advanced leaps in political evolution to which we probably owe the separation of government and religion in today's modern - aw nobody buys that anymore but regardless -

"Borgias!" I cut off all outside distractions, and dig in. Lucy reluctantly wanders out of my field of vision, probably to get to her own backstock of work. It is a blissful drudgery, reliving history through Desmond's genetic connections, and if the fate of mankind didn't hang in the balance - I might even enjoy my job.

* * *

A few hours later the team breaks for a meal and I keep typing, decrypting on one screen with half my attention towards the video feed on the other. Borgias - amazing, amazing stuff. Myths debunked, rumors proven true, excellent, all of it. Truly great. A steaming carboard cup of noodle soup appears on the desk and I move it out of the way lest it spill, eyes fixed to the dual screens. Later, a cup of tea replaces the untouched noodles. Had I more tact than intellect I would have accepted Lucy's peace offerings with due enjoyment, but really I couldn't manage a rat's arse towards co-worker drama when there were _Borgias_ on screen.

"It's like he's a zombie." Rebecca stage-whispers from my right. "Dude, I'm calling it; you officially broke Shaun."

"Nobody broke Shaun. He's working, leave him alone." Lucy, God Bless You.

Ten lines of notes later and I scratch the back of my neck, turning to that eerie feeling one gets when being observed for any extended amount of time (being both a reasonably attractive human being and hunted by a secret organization of religious crazies can hone this skill). I nearly fall out of my chair at Desmond's proximity, but he's only watching the screen over my shoulder.

"I thought there was something important about the arrangement between - "

"Aaaagh, Medici seal!" I backspace furiously and hover over the keyboard. "I'm sorry, Desmond, what did you need?"

He shrugs. "Nothing. Nevermind."

My focus is back on the screen. "Ohhkaaay. Is there a reason you're hanging out at my desk?" I don't hear the answer to that question. Cesare Borgia, perhaps the most evil man of his time and no mere rumor, that. I am in the proverbial _zone_ and this is going to take something a little stronger than coffee. Bring on the B vitamins, this was going to be an all-nighter. Wow. Great. _Excellent._

* * *

When Lucy is tired, her voice gets extra plaintive. "Shaun's the best at his job, so you just have to let him do it."

Desmond, the presumptive twat, argues, "He'll fuck something up if he doesn't get any sleep; miss an important cue, or..."

"I know you're concerned, but his methods have worked fine so far."

"We don't need 'fine', we need progress. Don't tell me he didn't just spend half the night geeking out over a historical figure that has nothing to do with our search."

"Hey, okay, no. Shaun's first priority is gathering the pieces of Eden, you know that, hey _look at me_. You know that. He eats, sleeps, and breathes this project."

"Yeah, I know. I'm just tired of this shit and I want it to end."

"Need to take tomorrow off?"

My gut clenches at overhearing Lucy's offer; a day off for Desmond is another day for me to spend attention on the Borgias.

"No, not that, I mean I want it to end, like, everything. I want us to find the apple and win and for this all to be over so the world can go back to normal already."

Lucy makes a sympathetic noise in the back of her throat and I can imagine her nodding. "Well, Saturday's your mandatory day off, so don't waste it worrying over Shaun. He's a passionate historian and greatly enjoys his work."

"How the hell do you figure that?"

"If he didn't like his job, he wouldn't be doing it. Come on, have you ever witnessed Shaun giving in to anything if it didn't mean immediate or longterm gain for himself?" Harsh, but fair, and maybe this would put a stop to the headlocks and shoving matches.

It's Desmond's turn to concede the point. "Thanks for hearing me out at least. I guess."

"_I guess_." Lucy mimics, voice fading down the hall.

I pull the reheated mug of tea from the microwave and return to my desk.

* * *

It is almost four in the morning, and Desmond is already awake. Or, more insanely, he has been awake all this time actually reading that book in his lap and not just using it as a prop to dissuade intellectual carnivores.

"Oi." I am in a fan-fucking-tastic mood, brain full of Borgias. Ecstatic, you know, if they weren't such horrible people of course.

"Hey." Desmond blinks heavily up at me, dark brown eyes pools of ink in the dim flood of a desk lamp.

"You're going to ruin your eyes, reading at night." I cross my arms and lean against the doorway. "There are only a select few who can truly rock _geek chic_, and I'm afraid you aren't among that crowd."

He blinks again. "What."

"Glasses. You would need spectacles if you ruined your eyes, and they wouldn't suit your face." _Must_ everything be spelled out for you, Desmond? In monosyllabic bite-sized bits?

"You look fine without glasses."

"Not my point. In fact, not anything to do with my point? Your brain is obviously fatigued. Go to bed." I leave the room to commandeer the washroom for a five-coffee piss and a shower that lasts until sunrise.


	2. Ch 2

**: X :**

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO:** Theorem

* * *

Saturday happened, and unbeknownst to me it was International Bother Shaun Until He Cracks Day. Yelling didn't work against the onslaught; headphones and deskwork only served momentary buffer.

"Desmond!" I am clawing the air between us, strangling nothing. "For the fifth fucking time, _bugger off_."

Desmond stands - _hovers -_ resolute. "You don't have to process that data; it's useless."

"I _want_ to process it. It's _interesting,_" I argue, attempting to put my foot down with all the gravitas and finality of 'so there'.

Desmond persists, "Don't you want to get some exercise or... anything?"

Rebecca interrupts from the kitchen-area, "Hey, guys? Split a chill pill and come eat before this gets cold."

"No, Rebecca," I huff, _seething_. "I think I'll just starve. I'm going to sit here and _just starve,_ while my muscles atrophy, and I will enjoy every fucking minute of the degeneration just to spite you both. Fuck, Desmond, go eat!" I point imperiously out of the animus room to no effect, then curl over the keyboard again to backspace over the mangled characters of an earlier struggle. My chair is kicked away from the desk for a third time.

Desmond squares his arms over the chair, doing his best to glare down at me in a suspiciously Altair-ish fashion. "I'm calling an intervention."

I valiantly resist the urge to stick my pen up his nose. "Just because you're bored doesn't mean you get to interrupt my free time."

"_This_ isn't free time, Shaun! It's masochism!" Desmond jabs a finger at the screen. "You had so much caffeine last night that your hands shake whenever you're not typing; the circles under your eyes are so fucking huge you look like a crackhead and you're so thin I could break you in half. When I first signed on with this team, I couldn't break you in half."

"That is an ... oddly specific list. Crackhead? And you've been training! I've always been this shape, not that it's any of _your_ business."

Lucy's voice sails out from the corner of the ruins that had been made kitchen-like. "Shaun. Everybody on this team needs to eat and sleep on schedule, or we risk falling behind. No 'buts'."

"Well all right, then. You heard mother, Desmond." I kick ineffectually at the back of Desmond's knee as he walks away, correcting my chair before joining family dinner time.

* * *

"Is that a gun?"

Sigh. "No, Desmond. It's a daisy."

"You named your gun Daisy. Okay. Cool."

"Die in a fire, Miles. Put that down!"

"Jeeze, ow! What? I know how to handle a gun!"

"Yeah well guess who Lucy'll blame when you pop a toe off?"

"It's not even assembled."

"Excellent observation! Why are you here?"

"Do I need a reason to be in the back room?"

"Generally yes, but I'll save time and just assume you're looking for staples. Middle tote, second stack from the door." I press a fresh cloth over the mouth of the oil bottle, tipping it briefly before attending my task. Lucy had gotten these weapons on the cheap so I was particularly anxious to inspect and clean them. Get at all the unmitigated cocaine mercenaries might have left in the nooks and crannies. The scrape of a folding chair heralds Desmond's approach, settling on the opposite side of the card table. I set down the bullet chamber, tossing the rag atop the shining metal bits. "Why don't you go play house with one of the girls?"

Desmond answers with a wince and a shrug. "Lucy's been kinda moody today and Rebecca's no better. I think they're synched, but you can't exactly imply anything without, y'know. Thought I'd lay low this week."

"... Synched?"

"Yeah, you know?" Desmond inclines his head and waves at the air between us. "When women live together, they synch up."

"For as long as I've known Rebecca I still couldn't tell you if that's true or not, but I'm positive Lucy is straight. If you're going to gossip, at least make it plausible."

Desmond's eyebrows come crashing down. "What the fuck are you talking about."

"What are _you_ talking about?"

The heavy scent of gun oil lays thick in the air between us, Desmond's alarm worn right out there for the world to see. "You don't know?" The grin cracks across his confusion, a flash of bright teeth in a swarthy face. "You seriously don't know about - ahaha!" And now his smile is genuine and if I ignored the fact that he was laughing _at me_ I might even have to say that it was pretty damn attractive.

Judging by Desmond's reluctance to clarify I could only hazard the guess, "Good GOD man, are you talking about their _menses_? Desmond, that - " I stand, palms flat on the table. "That is horrifying. You, _you_ are a terrible person."

"Just so long as you're in the know." Desmond sobers to a degree, still grinning like a ... like something not very bright. Cough. "And since when does 'synched' mean 'dating'? You've been at your computer _way_ too long."

"You said 'synched up', as in 'hooked up', as in what the adults do when they don't want all the emotional baggage of a committed relationship."

"Hahaaa, I forgot how to laugh," Desmond drawls, then furtively reassures me - "And I've totally hooked up before, don't give me that look."

Oh, no. No. I was _not_ going to get into a dick-waving contest with this idiot. I was just going to shake my head in what I hoped was a non-argumentative, completely neutral manner and I was going to reassemble my handgun and leave.

"_Lots_," Desmond murmurs petulantly, pausing as if to give me the chance to refute him. "Not even counting the ones I can't remember."

I snort, but bite my lips together to keep silent. Glancing up from the hasty re-assembly, my stomach clenches. Desmond isn't wearing his usual cocky grin or pinched-brow confusion. He's made a nest of folded arms and hunkered down against the tabletop as if to nap, but the whites of his eyes light up brilliantly over the white of his sleeves, unblinking and unsmiling.

"Well. Bully for you." Yes, congratulations Desmond, you've found a bragging point I will never contend.

"I worked in a bar. It wasn't difficult."

"Fine, another victory then; having escaped herpes as often as you've escaped death."

Desmond settles his chin on his forearms and pulls the corner of his mouth up, a ghost of a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "This is the part where you tell me that you've had your fair share of 'comely admirers'."

My fingers still over the skeleton of the gun. "That is really none of your business."

"Did she leave your ass for being a workaholic, or just a frosty bastard?"

I abandon the gun, standing slowly. Desmond isn't a particularly vicious human being; in fact I think I'd like him better if he manned up once in a while. He's got a good handle on cynicism, after all, but seems reluctant to lash out. This would mean he is a compassionate person, and therefore easy to devastate - even when pulling the whole oh-so-tired male dominance stunt.

I've got one hand on the table, the other on the back of Desmond's chair. Body heat brushing against my chin and neck, even from this distance, a subtle heady aroma beneath the sharp cologne of a deodorant commonly advertised to instil female mating frenzy. "He died."

Desmond shifts in place, eyes widening up at me.

I reiterate, "He. Died."

Desmond's expression falls a little further, trapped there under the invasion of his personal space.

I transition smoothly into the lecture, my voice hardly wavering, "I buried myself in 'conspiracy theory' detective work shortly after, revealing the most insidious plots of the modern fiscal world through various media exposures. Abstergo was the only rabbit that bit back. Any more questions, class?"

One could practically see the little curls of steam coming out of Desmond's ears as his poor overtaxed brain worked to digest the idea that not everybody's world revolved around him.

"Right, I'll just let you think on that. Lesson learned? Good." I dust my hands together and leave.

* * *

"Miles is picking on me, and it's not even remotely entertaining anymore."

"Um. Shaun, hi. Good morning." Lucy glances behind herself, as if checking to see if I were complaining to anyone else just then. "Have you been up all night again?"

"Yes. I'm afraid to go to bed because he could be awake, waiting for me." I straighten at the table, stomping sleep out of one leg. "Waiting to _say_ things."

"We're all entitled to _say things_, as you yourself so frequently demonstrate, and I already told you no more late nights. That's the rule now." Lucy bustles about the totes of dried foodstuffs on their cheap plyboard tables, fixing me a cup of whatever might get me through the day. Probably drain cleaner.

"Nnngh. Just tell him to knock it off. I can't work under these conditions."

The mug of water I had left in the microwave is placed in front of me. "No."

I blink up from the steam, thoroughly surprised. "Er. Love. This is the part where you reassure me that Desmond respects your authority and skill, and that you will tell him to lay off if it's really bothering me...?"

"I am not the babysitter, remember? You're on your own, Hastings."

"This is for that 'bossy' comment a few days back, isn't it? Passive-aggression is an ugly colour on you, pet."

"You do realize that you only fight because you're both so similar? How can I be the only one that sees this?" Lucy addresses the ceiling, throwing the dry teabag at my head, which bounces off my glasses and lands in the cup.

"If Desmond is hiding a dashing, highly intelligent and remarkably pessimistic dual-personality in that thick skull of his, I'd certainly like to know about it."

"A-_hah_!"

I startle, reaching for the sugar. "Eureka! What are we celebrating?"

"Desmond used to be _very_ pessimistic, in fact. You'd know that if you read his file."

My jaw sets. "You know why I haven't, Luce."

Lucy sidles her chair close to mine, dropping her voice. "You two have a lot in common, but Desmond didn't have a happy or particularly normal upbringing. The attitude he carries around here, day in and day out? That's his coping mechanism. I'm sure you'd like him more if he was the cynical asshole that Abstergo kidnapped, but I for one am glad to see he's lightened up and can take this whole fucked-up situation in better stride." She pats my shoulder, and damn it all to hell was probably right.

"Fair enough, but what are you really trying to say here, Luce? Beyond the veneer of happy-go-lucky slacker is a tightly wound scholarly fellow who secretly enjoys Asiatic teas and late-night quiz shows? Someone with whom I could wear matching sweaters and trade ancient cartography tidbits? Hm?"

Lucy laughs, much too bright and cheery for this early in the morning. "Sure. Why not."

* * *

Out of the corner of my eye, I track Desmond sinking to the sanctuary steps facing the animus, legs crossed lotus style, staring, unblinking. He is either just spacing out (as per usual) or - well, I didn't want to contemplate the alternative. "Lucy." I swivel my chair, nodding in Desmond's direction as he slowly rises.

"I know. I'm going to follow him." Already pulling on a faded green pea coat, Lucy reassure both me and Rebecca, "I'll call if I need backup."

"Wha -" I gesture angrily toward the stone passage currently roaring from the echo of rainfall. "It's absolutely pissing out! Just let Fido run himself stupid, he'll come home when he gets hungry enough."

Lucy levels her no-bullshit Look my way, fixing the collar of her parka. "You know why we can't do that; I don't like the idea of him on his own when he isn't in his right mind."

"Need me to come with?" Rebecca slides out from under Baby 2.0, wire solder in hand.

"No, thank you. We need those repairs finished. I can pick up some mouse traps on the way back, keep this from happening again, but I think right now the best thing for Desmond is a smoother transition, first in and then back out of the Animus."

I huff, arms flopping out by my sides. "Well _I'm_ certainly not going to be very much help if things go south out there."

"You're still a crack shot, aren't you?"

I brighten, "Yes, and very glad to shoot Desmond if he attacks you."

Lucy waves at that idea, trying not to laugh, nervously or otherwise. "I'll stay out of his way. I'm just keeping an eye on him." She salutes, dashing after the subject as he leaves with a determined stride.

"Well this is shitty." Rebecca crawls back under the animus' chair.

* * *

Yes, the entire wait was indeed 'shitty'. Two hours of acting the personal secretary to the Brotherhood's coordinate relay with my laptop in the back room (because Rebecca liked to play femme death-metal while she worked and couldn't wear her headphones in the midst of all those wires; could you blame me for putting a wall between myself and that noise). I'm a glorified desk jockey with a gun. That could be a t-shirt slogan... My mobile clamours to life and I nearly fall out of the tipped chair, scrambling to answer.

"Luce? Hello? Hi? I'm grabbing my coat now." Striding quickly through the living area we'd cordoned off in the sanctuary ruins, I burst into the animus room to get Becka's attention.

Desmond's voice answers in the static rush of inclement weather, "_Shaun? I can't get a hold of Lucy; where is she? I think I've been spotted by a Templar scout._"

"Bloody fine time to shop for rodent control! Augh, nevermind, Desmond, stay where you are. I've got the allocator signal right in front of me. Rebecca, sweetheart, we're on red!" I kill the music, nearly stumble over Becky as she scrambles underfoot to the locker containing her handgun, and forget my coat entirely on the way out.

Three city blocks to Desmond's location before the rain lets up, glasses fogged and gun tucked unwisely in the back hem of my trousers. Though nightfall, one never could know which Italian granny would be running a last-minute errand to the fishmarket for her brodetto sauce. I was right on top of Desmond's signal, phone held close to my chest to shield it from the rain, when it dawned on me that I would probably have to climb fifteen bloody stories to get to whatever ridiculous platform of the city our precious subject had wedged himself into. There was no scalable fire escape within view, no doors left unlocked in what I assumed was an apartment building, and if a Templar was in the area I couldn't just shout around like a drunken tourist.

I paced, dialing Lucy's cell. The buildings in this area were all crammed together, old and new, gaps between them no more than a foot wide, though that was more than enough space for a murderer to lie in wait and no fucking way was I going to go poking around in the dark in the vague hope of finding a way to Desmond _fucking_ Miles. Why was it up to _me_ to reach him, you ask? Because I was the one with the gun, Rebecca was the one guarding the Animus, Lucy was the one faffing about doing whatever it was she was doing, and Desmond was the one we needed to keep alive. Hidden.

Also because Rebecca, while more athletic and Amazonian than I, was slightly more valuable to our effort; she kept the machine running after all. So long as I was ranking my colleagues by usefulness I'd have to admit that Lucy risked herself so freely because she knew we'd be able to carry on without her there to powder our bottoms. Not that I wanted to dwell on losing anyone right now, but _honestly woman pick up your phone_. I felt the gun sliding out of the small of my back the same time my arm was twisted into a hold, face-planted into the rough stone wall of the building I'd been circling. "Desmond, you _tit_."

"This thing isn't even loaded," Desmond hisses, dragging me into the narrow crevice from which he had emerged (thoroughly soaked and agitated and do please leave off the pasty nerd who is trying to save your life for a minute you _ape_).

"Brilliant." I shove away and attempt to battle the rising claustrophobia. "Where's the Templar?"

"On your left across the street, roofside."

Having failed to contact Lucy and now in a proper state of alarm, I wipe the screen of my phone and start typing. With any luck, I'd be able to convince the locator feed to register Lucy's cell, which wasn't too hard considering the connection between the devices was reinforced nearly every time she stepped out to shop and forgot the difference between Oolong and Darjeeling. The result was surprising and only mildly relieving - because either Lucy had been in the loo back at base this whole time, or -

"Desmond, kindly call Rebecca's phone and tell Lucy to take the baddie out already."

Without a word, Desmond complies. If a life-threatening situation was what it took to make Desmond Miles shut up and do as told, I'd almost _prefer_ there were more Templars crawling around Toscana. "Lucy? Gah - where are you?" Desmond pulls air in through his teeth, glancing sharply over my head. "Got it. Yes. Why didn't you...? Oh. Yeah, _okay_, chill." Lucy's muffled squawking pierces the noise of the dying rain, and I glance nervously up at the silhouette on the rooftop. "Uh-huh. Later." Desmond stares down at the cut connection, shaking his head.

"So ...?"

"So, what? I'm freezing my nuts off out here; let's head back."

I take this opportunity to halt Desmond in his tracks. Having deduced by this time that the figure on the roof was Lucy herself and that our lost doggy, upon calling the phone she had mixed up with Rebecca's and getting no answer, had panicked and thought a Templar was following him. There was so much verbal ammunition in this scenario that I couldn't decide whether to store it up for later use or just light into him as payback for all the extra pestering these past few days.

I had gotten rained on, after all, and this was my favourite shirt.

"So, don't go out there. The Templar just left the roof and we don't have any bullets."

Desmond settles back against the wall, arms crossed, a vision in clingy-wet streetclothes. "I think we'll be fine." Does he know that I know? Or does he only think he knows that I know? Assuming I _don't_ know? Perhaps I wasn't putting on enough dramatic effect. Bah, well, worth a try.

I seize the front of Desmond's hoodie in one hand, fabric heavy and warm by what I assumed to be rather vigorous roof-hopping prior. "No, Desmond. You are way too important for our mission. I'll act as decoy and try to get the Templar to follow me away from base. You. You wait right here until dawn. I'm sure the girls will come rescue you when you don't make it in for breakfast." I draw up close, peering into Desmond's skepticism from over the top of my glasses in what I hoped was a valiant and self-sacrificing manner but probably landed somewhere between spiteful and amused. "Godspeed, soldier."

That would have been that. Desmond would have dismissed me with some pithy insult ('asshole' seemed to be the word of the month), and we'd have made our sorry way back to base, sheepish but braver. Maybe if we hadn't been in such close quarters, I don't know, or if I hadn't paused at the sensation of warmth seeping through the wet fabric between us or taken a prolonged up-close evaluation of the rainwater catching on Desmond's scarred... smiling lip...

A swipe of that mouth against mine, followed by a firmer peck, stiff and awkward and cold and damp and oh god, what is he - I tighten my fist on Desmond's shirtfront - swear to god if this is a joke - my mouth follows after the pullback, nudging his lips open and oh fuck don't make that noise you've been tongued hundreds of times before this - said so yourself dear _christ_ that scar -

I can't see anything. Glasses digging into nose and cheek, I have no idea what I'm doing and rather surprised I'm doing it, shit shit _shit_ that hand is warm - game, set, match, there is an explosion of limbs from the narrow alley, ranting something about personal space and boundaries and unprofessional bloody practices, but it's not me. I'm still stuck in that little foot-wide piece of Toscana, crammed up against an unweathered partition of stone wall, shoulder-to-shoulder with someone that resembles Desmond Miles, otherwise impossible because Desmond Miles is _not for fucking_ -

Wiping the rain from my face, I mutter a vague attempt at protest against the shallower advances - this is such a terrible idea. How is it Desmond manages to seek out the worst ideas possible and execute them with such flawless ignorance? I bet his parents had to put frowny-face stickers on all the household cleaning agents, _to no effect_. I should put a stop to this. It would be the right thing to do, the professional course. Right. I pry myself free, glasses fogged. Desmond's got the back of my neck, _smouldering_ at me through the dim wash of dirty streetlamps every time our little open-mouthed collisions stutter to a halt.

Modestly enough, I myself couldn't manage a smoulder if I tried - the best attempts resulting in concern over the state of my digestion. I _can_ manage a good eye-fucking, though, backing up away from the heat and incessant mouth-pecking encouragement, the scent of cold rain on a warm body. I wipe the fog from my glasses with the back of a knuckle to get a good head-to-toe eyefuck in before turning to stroll back to base, hands in pockets.

Like any lost doggy, Desmond is smart enough to follow; like any amped-up fratboy, he is stupid enough to smack me on the ass _really fucking hard_ as he dashes by. I rock up on my toes, hissing air in through my teeth before coming back down to earth. What starts out as an angry march becomes a dutiful jog, fresh night air raking fingers through wet hair, becomes a faster jog, becomes a pounding chase after that low-crouched figure losing headway, glancing back at the noise of the puddles I'm fording. Surprised to see me keeping pace, fabric escaping fingertips with a laugh.


	3. Ch 3

**:** **: X : :  
**

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE**: Catalyst

* * *

Lucy was in a proper rage by the time I entered the dry chill of our little underground lair, five minutes too late to witness her chewing Desmond out for leaving me behind in the shady backstreets without my gun. I was fully confident she'd had her say on the matter. On my behalf. You know, because we're such chums.

" - need to spend more time training and _less_ time sitting around waiting for your mind to overlap itself. I want to tighten up the schedule over - hey!" Lucy drops her arms, clipboard clattering to the desk as Desmond catches my eye and bolts. Lucy turns just as I'm striding across the open space, nearly stumbling over a Rebecca-shaped lump setting live traps (_bleeding hearts unite_) under my desk for our rodent problem. Lucy squares her arms in front of me."You. We need to talk. That could have been better handled."

I tug my desk chair out of Rebecca's way, both hands on the backrest to keep it between me and the half-drowned she-lion, lacking for a bullwhip and one of those flaming hoops. "Sure I forgot to load the gun, but who's the bright star that grabbed the wrong phone?"

"YOU DID _WHAT_?"

"... Desmond not as much of a rat as I supposed, then?"

Rebecca springs vertical. "S'cuse me, did I hear 'rat'? I thought they were just cute little mice! Screw this, we're getting Raid."

Lucy's fingertips are pressed to her brow. "Shaun, why - how could you possibly - "

I take a breath, carefully editing the event, "I was _cleaning_ the damn thing and Desmond came in and decided to _be Desmond_ at me so I repaired my weapon quickly to make a timely escape and, and simply forgot." A shrug, clothes sticking to the movement unpleasantly. "I didn't expect anyone to ring in with an actual alarm. This IS Brotherhood territory, after all."

Lucy waves down the air between us, dismissive. "No, you know what? No excuses. This is - this is inexcusable. I'm upping the hours for Desmond's training this week, and you two can join us."

Rebecca drops the small metal trap she'd been trying to shove back into its box. "What? Hey, my Glock is always loaded and I do my own callisthenics."

Lucy sighs. "I know, Becka. We need to be able to respond to emergency situations better as a team, though."

I snort, shaking rainwater from my sleeve. "I'm not jumping off any bloody buildings. Not climbing them in the first place, for that matter."

"That's fine." Lucy closes her eyes. I take the chance to try and slip past her, but she nearly clothes-lines me. "Hey. Stop it. Stop. Fighting. I don't _care_ what he did this time, and I understand we're all going a little stir crazy, but this-" She frames a box in the air between me and the rest of the room. "Isn't helping. Let's all try to remain adults, here."

"I'm only going to hit him a _little,_" I wheedle. Lucy meets this with one of her Looks, as if she actually expects me to give Desmond a good smack, given the chance, which is her fault entirely for under-estimating my level of self-preservation. "Actually I'm just eager to get into something dry. It's colder than a w-"

"'Witch's teat'; totally called it. Luce, you owe me thirty bucks." Rebecca nudges Lucy, wielding a dry cloth at our footprints lest someone slip and harm a machine with their head.

"Whale's anus. I was going to say 'it's colder than a whale's anus'. Have _you_ ever migrated through the Arctic Ocean? Perfectly reasonable metaphor and stop _betting_ _on my bloody vernacular_."

Lucy sighs through her nose, forehead doing that veiny wrinkle thing (28 years old, my foot). She drops her arm. "I'll e-mail the new schedule. You get some sleep because we're not going to start without either of you."

I nod. "Yes yes, all right. I'm fine, by the way. Nobody tried to mug me on the way back. Still got my shoes."

"Good night, Shaun."

* * *

Desmond hadn't disappeared out of embarrassment, nor for the sake of any bizarre chase fetish. Wanker just wanted to commandeer the shower for himself, a point I overheard Lucy protest while I made due with towels and a dry set of pyjama sweats. I pace our - _the_ room for a bit, until Lucy's carrying-on finally pries Desmond from the shower.

I can hear Desmond's protest drifting in from the small stone corridor, " - wasn't even fifteen minutes, sheesh. Keep your panties on."

Pavlov's theory of associative behaviors; if you ring a bell when presenting food often enough, a hound will drool when it hears the bell whether there is food or not. I mostly associate men-who-kiss-me-and-then-are-naked with sex; so if I could lay down on my cot and turn my back on that figurative bell, no drooling need happen. Figuratively. I keep my back to the door, head on the pillow, nose in a paperback.

The hushed proximity of Desmond's voice runs a prickle down my spine, "Hey. Lucy's got the shower next but she's never more'n ten minutes." The mattress - _my_ mattress - creaks on its springs the way it did when Lucy had perched in that very same spot.

I forget to pretend to sleep, nevermind having left my glasses on. Oh, so _that's_ what the rest of that tattoo looks like. Huh. "_Hey_ is neither my name nor job title. Now sod off; I just got dry and you're dripping on my bed." The insult lacks venom; traitorous reptilian brainparts softening my regard for the man I had been all too eager to inseminate mere moments ago.

"Okay, _Shaun,_ Lucy will be out in ten." Desmond shifts to face the door, elbows on knees, towel wrapped securely around his waist.

I kick my leg out vaguely in his direction, failing to make contact but jarring the rickety cot. "Still dripping, Desmond."

"You know, you always say my name, like that's a thing for you. First thought it was just your wacky English etiquette." Desmond shrugs a shoulder, the slide of muscle under skin that looks like it misses the sun - I try to swallow as quietly as possible. "But I started counting and it turns out that you say my name way more than Lucy and Rebecca combined. So, I figure you just like saying it." He glances at me, wiping a trickle of water from the back of his neck like slapping at a mosquito, inspecting his hand as if to check for blood before soothing the spot with careful fingers.

"Bit jumpy, Desmond?" I bite the inside of my cheek. _Bollocks, _he was right.

"Not at all." Desmond delivers that easy, over-confident smile - and _fuck me _for having ever gone into that narrow alley in the first place because _he knew_, he knew and he wasn't ever going to just forget it, or pretend it didn't happen, or just let the matter drop. Wasn't going to do the smart thing.

My glasses are carefully set atop the travel-case serving as a bedside table. I scrub my face with both hands and settle back into the starchy pillow, exhaling in a rush. The figurative bell is already ringing so we might as well declare the dog's appetite sufficiently roused (as it looks that Desmond isn't going to _leave me alone_ and god help me for once I don't want him to). "All right, down to brass tacks. I'd rather we skip all the pigtail tugging; you have to admit neither of us has much time for pre-coital bullshit."

Desmond chews the inside of his cheek, contemplating the door I hadn't noticed he'd shut (the presumptuous bastard). "Is that what you want?"

My stomach clenches, tension pooling in my balls already. "Am I known to bluff? No, don't answer that, just get over here and blow me already." I would regret this in the morning, when Lucy might be pulling drill-sergeant torture down on us all before the sun's break over the bleeding horizon. The rest of the cot takes the weight of another fully grown man with a loud complaint. Guess inherited superhuman nightvision counts for balls-all if you close your eyes when you kiss because you are just _that much of a woman_, Miles.

Desmond's thumb kneads slow circles against my shoulder and I realize that this is the kind of pre-coital crap I proposed we avoid. I wanted to _bang_ Desmond, not have a litter of kittens, for crying out loud - through fits and starts and relentless open-mouthed interruptions, I manage to tug out of the stifling sweatshirt, nudity as good a catalyst as any. Lungs pulling in deep and quick, nose pressed into Desmond's shoulder, neck, cheek, hair; never wanted to fuck anyone as badly as I wanted to fuck the man I knew it was a bad idea to fuck.

Did that make any sense? Brain on holiday; body under new primeval management.

I get a hand up the still-warm towel to give Desmond a clearer idea of what was meant by 'skip to the good parts', and he's half hard already. How long had it been since I felt another man's prick stiffen against my palm? The sting of heat in my chest multiplies and, and there is motion and the first prickle of sweat in a room that was sub-arctic at best, _dear god_ Desmond how did you even _know_ I like that thing you're doing to my ear...?

"_Fucking hell_ - I want you in my mouth." I slide both hands up to push at Desmond's chest and maybe cop a feel: some blokes don't like the nipple thing, but he only presses in closer so I suppose that's some sort of consent and _o my jolly giddy-fucking-odd_, training indeed. "Sit back, I'm going to suck you off." Because, you know, fair warning and all that. Honestly, Desmond, _move your ass before I throw you_. He makes a noise like air leaking out of a balloon, teeth scraping over my jaw as his hips snap down. Or not, you know. Grinding is good too. The elastic hem of the sweatpants swipes down my cock, drawn as far as my thighs in a writhing fit before bare stomachs press up and down and this is the hottest, clumsiest thing I have done since fooling around beneath the rugby stands at uni.

Oh, _christ_, my entire fucking kingdom for a condom right now. Desmond would just have to take it dry, maybe learn a lesson about crawling into bed with the man he'd been tormenting for weeks. Fuck, nevermind, we weren't even going to get that far - Desmond steadily thrusting against my hip and well agitated prick. Not exactly quiet about how much he was enjoying the act of pinning me to a creaky mattress.

"Shh," I'm laughing because my God, _could this get any more surreal_.

It sneaks up on me, the orgasm. Not that I wasn't having a good time, just not exactly focused on getting my own rocks off in the face of Desmond's surprising greed and there the rocks went and got off all by themselves. Pursued by a slightly stubbled kiss, of all things. Desmond wedges a leg between my own, sliding the forgotten obstacle of pants completely off with a nearly violent twist, clutching at my arse as his own happy ending tightens every muscle under my fingertips.

Giving in to 'wacky English etiquette', I patiently wait for the shudders above me to dissipate and the tongue fucking me in the throat to withdraw before kicking Miles out of the bed. He even gets his towel back, after it servs its cottony absorptive purpose in cleaning up the evidence of our inter-office rendezvous.

Desmond reclines naked against the side of his cot, voicing no protest even as I shake my bedsheets out and turned off the cheap desk light between us.

* * *

**A Summary of Incidents, Part I**

There is beer in the mini-fridge, along with a _bon anniversaire_ note from Lucy, who is just _that much of a nerd_ to have actually memorized birthdays from everybody's personal files. Compared to her usual nazi lockdown on all things deemed unessential, this is a very deep and meaningful gesture that only proves to cement our friendship. So I offer to share.

Lucy declines, claiming beer makes her fat. I cradle a fresh bottle to my chest and peek in on Rebecca, who tells me that she can't imbibe on account of her mysterious pill usage. Desmond is in the kitchen by now, asking after the lager and how smashed one could get on Italian brew. Lucy reprimands him for the very idea, and I think I tear up a little when she announces Those Are For Shaun. I wait until Lucy leaves to mock Desmond, cracking a bottle open and narrating my enjoyment.

There is a witty exchange of light-hearted insults that inevitably lead to physical retaliation; physical retaliation is interrupted by Rebecca And Her Raised Eyebrows, who wordlessly retrieves her diet soda and backs out slowly.

**A Summary of Incidents, Part II**

Two words: Birthday Blowjob. _Surprise attack_ birthday blowjob, which only improves the overall experience, I'll admit. Against the wall, no questions asked, relentlessly drawn-out, surprise attack birthday blowjob. Proof there is an almighty, infallible God and that He loves me.

**A Summary of Incidents, Part III**

Supply run with Lucy. I volunteer to pull the general toiletries-and-detergents half of the shopping list while Lucy goes on grocery, and we meet up back at the van. Among my half of the loot there is a small paper pharmaceutical bag, which Lucy immediately spots. I tell her I bought cigarettes.

Lucy reminds me that I don't smoke, but so long as we're both really _that_ stressed, could I share? I decline, stating some garbage about athletic lung usage versus computer technician lung usage, followed by other awkward excuses, until eventually the lightbulb flickers to life over that immaculately arranged blonde head of hair and Lucy demands the bag.

The label is in Italian, but any grown woman would know a condom when faced with one. Or a box of them. Wouldn't want Desmond getting pregnant, since that would royally fuck with the Animus synching and my comment on the matter pulls Lucy out of the angry/hurt rage-spiral she looked as if she was tipping silently into. The worst I get of it is a lecture on professionalism during the drive back to base, but I make a note to be a little kinder to the boss-lady for the immediate future.


	4. epilogue

**: x :**

_And now, to hear Desmond's side of the story! Which will be less_  
_grammatically correct. Tagged on to the end of this one, because  
spring cleaning deletions. /derps  
_

* * *

** epilogue**

* * *

Yeah, okay, so I'm an asshole.

You could see it plain as day, man, the way he _looked _at me when nobody else was in the room, arms crossed protectively over his cardigan as if reminding himself to keep up the angry nerd act. So, I picked on him, so what? We had a pretty good setup, filling my days with genetic time travel adventure and my nights with, well, worrying mostly. It took my mind off shit, picking fights. Rebecca was no good in a debate, all absurdity and wise-cracking. Lucy got too invested in what we were doing, which I understand, but that didn't make her any less of a downer.

So then there was Shaun, and Shaun was... ugh, man, I don't know. British? Temperamental? Something. Shaun was something. We even got along for a little while, when things were good, when it looked like we were winning in this our most epic struggle against the forces of – of –

Well, not evil. Megalomania, definitely, but I don't think either side was exactly in the right once it was made obvious we were all just being played by some higher power (story of my life). The whole situation was well fucked, but that's about as detailed as I'm classified to get. The point I'm trying to make, however, was that when shit got tough again, when the clock looked like it was starting its final countdown, was when everybody around me seemed to curl back up into their own defenses.

Lucy got... L_ucier._ Becca disappeared behind her headphones and hardly spoke. Shaun went back to despising the very sound of my voice, hell, the very sound of _anyone's_ voice. Right when I needed my dreamteam the most, they all dried up, picked fights with each other and sent me back to the animus. I didn't complain; I knew what was on the line.

But you get sick of it, after a while. I got sick of it.

I didn't want to be invisible.

So I reached out and smacked Shaun on my last lap around the dias; because he was there, because of the way he had been looking at me before – all wide eyes behind the glare of his glasses. Like a man in the desert, determined to remind himself that the ocean was not on the horizon, that it was just a trick of the heat. Determined to ignore what was right in front of him.

I got his attention.

I got his attention and I wanted to scream in his smug fucking face to wake the fuck up already, to stop ignoring us for what was on a computer screen, to come back out of the past and maybe look around at what the present was offering. So I bullied him. Because I'm an asshole, and I'd rather annoy my friends than... than nothing. I got him in a headlock and felt the heat of his skin as his face reddened, a dark flicker of enjoyment at the fact that I could actually _do_ this, that we could fight like this and maybe blow off a little steam, that maybe things would get better for all of us if Shaun would just snap already and get it over with.

He didn't snap. Have I mentioned that I'm an asshole yet? Because I'm also a hypocrite, in case you were beginning to form some sort of positive impression. 'Oh sure, Desmond's not so bad; he was just trying to help!' … something like that? Well, I was really only trying to help myself, because I didn't want to go through this shit alone; because I didn't want to wake up from the animus every night to empty stares and grim silence. And the hypocritical thing was that I couldn't see the ocean from the sand, either.

Shaun wasn't my friend. He never lied about that, and if there was one thing he was good at it was keeping people at a distance (if I can sound a little talk-show touchy feely for a minute here). Lucy was never my friend either; she was a guardian, maybe. Becca was everybody's friend the way a potted plant is everybody's friend. I was starting to realize that, and it scared me.

What was going to happen after we found the apple? Where would these people disappear to; was I even allowed to leave after that point? Would Becca still e-mail me physics jokes; would Lucy send flirty dry-humored texts? Would Shaun, haha, would Shaun ever actually answer his phone? If even just to tell me to stop calling? I was an indispensable component, valued only by the circumstance of genetics.

That's kinda heavy, isn't it? Sorry. Can't keep smiling all the time, not even when I've got Shaun in a small storage room, the card table shrinking between us as he stands with a clatter. When I know he's got no choice but to _listen_ to me, and is too easily provoked into answering questions he'd rather not. I did the research. I knew about his dead boyfriend, about Abstergo; I just wanted him to _say it out loud _for fuck's sake. To stop picking at the open wound inside of himself.

I wanted Shaun to _do something about it_, but I guess he already was, here, with the animus project. Maybe I just wanted him to _do something_ about me. Anything. Give me a platform to build off of, not just sit there all the time carefully ignoring the sound of my voice.

Every time he said my name was like, I dunno, validation? That he knew I _had_ a name, that I wasn't just a subject number? Is that kinda pathetic? It is, isn't it? I was kinda in a pathetic place at the time, so, y'know. I honestly don't know what would have happened, if I hadn't had that full mental meltdown right there in the middle of everyone. Suddenly I was Ezio, and the scene I walked out into wasn't the rainy Tuscany night, but a sunny Toscano morning. I was just taking a stroll – thank fuck that's all I was doing – trying to find a bread vendor. I woke up to cold and dark and rain, bargaining with a wall over the price of a spiced roll. I could feel the warmth of the fragrant bread fading from my palm even as I mistook Lucy's silhouette on a rooftop for that of an enemy.

Things got really weird really quick after that, and I'm not just talking about the physical displacement that comes part and parcel with extended animus use. I mean Shaun. Shaun _fucking_ Hastings. Abusing the guy never failed to cheer me up, even if our sniping drew blood, but holy shit. This guy...

This _fucking wise-ass guy_...

And his, an' his what, his fucking livid sarcasm and.

And he shows up, out of nowhere, _with a gun_, hahaha, and –

So I was thinking that I'd have to kill someone, that's real blood on my hands, yo, not cool, but then everything's _fine_ and damn near back to normal and I'm so _fucking relieved_ and, and it's raining and we both look like drowned hobos and _this guy_ is, I dunno, I don't even KNOW what the hell he thinks he's doing, but I know he's finally looking at me.

So then there we are sucking face, like ah, like that's what counts as normal now?

And maybe that was it, maybe Shaun just needed to get laid. Maybe I did. Hell, maybe the girls needed a little alone time too; not with each other, probably, but you know. No better way to wind down, to take things back from critical, and so.

So we're back at home-base and, this guy, right? Cool as James Bond about the whole thing, like he just says it _out loud_ that he wants ta suck me off and this is a far, far cry from 'go away, Desmond'.

I mean, I'm only human.

It's like... it's like this, okay? So we fuck around. We fuck around a _lot_. There is really nothing else to occupy our time outside of the animus, unless Shaun goes on one of his research binges and it doesn't take a genius to figure out how to keep him from disappearing into his work like that. I ain't subtle.

Shaun? Shaun is subtle. Shaun could stare at me over the top of his glasses across the breakfast table and I'd get hard. That's how subtle the dude could be. And man, if I weren't such a _selfish asshole_ I could have probably KNOWN the guy had, like, this _crush_ on me, and that was why he was such a prickly bastard all the time, and y'know, it was a bad idea. The whole thing was just asking for disaster.

So, later, I mean, like maybe a week later and it's Shaun's birthday somehow (well, I mean I KNOW how birthdays work, just), so I've got him against the corridor wall at some point, right? And this is the turning point, this is the extra stair you think you have to step from that ain't even there and you get this sinking feeling in your gut and like, so I've got his dick in my hand and he makes this _noise_ like holy shit you know this guy wants it and

there's like

this _twinge_ inside of me, see? So I go down on both knees and take him in my mouth and I've never done this shit sober, swear, so it's like he … I mean, he _says my name_ like I'm... what. I don't know. I suck him off, and I do that, and I'm hard, so I can't really stand up, and he does this ridiculous fireman's drag the few feet (I couldn't wait for earlier) across the stone floor to our room and there are

condoms

and I feel drunk (I'm not) and confused in this hazy kinda lust and it's kinda hard to believe that once we get the door kicked shut that he's got my pants undone and isn't even shying from the kiss for once. I get to fuck him several different ways from Tuesday, shedding our clothes with my dick already wrapped up and _in_ him; he gets this _look_ in his eye whenever I'm shirtless that he doesn't try to hold back this time around, and it's almost like he's _worshiping_ me, I mean that isn't vanity it's just what he's _doing_.

I thought he'd give some sort of fight, some sort of, I dunno, _protest_ and I don't even know why - but the guy is like putty in my hands. Really clingy putty who isn't too proud to beg, which would disturb me later but right then was everything I needed to hear from the person into which my cock was going.

So, it's intense, to say the least. I don't make it a habit to fuck people as like a power play, but I found myself pulling out just because I wanted to see the need in Shaun's face, to feel his legs wrap tighter around me, to hear the whiny protest come tumbling out of his mouth.

So.

The next time we fuck, some half a week later, Shaun is the one who - um. Pitches. He isn't nice about it, and he doesn't linger or tease the orgasm along like I had. It was like, maybe... _maybe_ he was trying to make up for that night. To remind himself that it could still be quick and dirty between us, and that I was still nice-guy-Desmond and he was still the cold bastard who was just trying to get off. It was a really sad, transparent retaliation and suddenly, it's like, I _know_ that he _likes_ me, like maybe not exactly as a friend because we weren't set up to be _functional_ as friends; but. Shaun was very obviously terrified of whatever it was that we had between us and was, by all accounts, determined to squash it.

By my guess, I mean. It's not like I could get the guy to _talk_ to me, or anything. Not like I even tried.

Me? I just wanted my friends back. Or else I wanted that illusion of friendship back. Sure I liked fucking Shaun, who wouldn't? The man kept things interesting, to say the least. I... I had even hated him at first, maybe. Hated how easily he had taken to dismissing me; hated how I was always going to be the one to _care more_.

Because Rebecca was more than a potted plant to me, and Lucy was more than a guardian, and Shaun was more than a pair of livid hazel eyes glued to a computer screen. He was _more_, more than the pale bone of his wrists flashing at the keyboard's edge, the length of his fingers as they curled down my ass and more than the wet heat of his mouth that one time he finally got around to demonstrating just _how good_ at giving head he really was.

I loved these people, and maybe that was why I'd have made such a terrible assassin. I kept this light in me, see, and I knew the minute my family wanted me to put this light out and live in the dark. But I didn't want that. I wanted to serve drinks and make people laugh, hear their stories, live some stories of my own. I wanted to fuck Shaun Hastings and not get kicked out of the bed seconds later.

I wanted to wake up at noon and order a goddamn pizza and watch some fucking cartoons and have a beer and maybe a pet dog and someone, anyone, to be in my bed when I came home at three in the morning.

So if we found this apple, right? If we found this apple and Shaun was still fucking around with me, then maybe, _maybe_ we could keep in touch and maybe, something? I mean sure, I didn't _really_ see that working out for either of us. Shaun was still in the Brotherhood and I would forever be too chickenshit to have the very necessary discussions about that. There are some roads that are too dark to travel down, like maybe they don't really have a way back once you've crossed the invisible line. Is that too vague? It is, isn't it.

Okay, so, I guess it was more like, I was scared Shaun would shut me out (was... was shutting me out, present tense). Forgive me if I sound like a _total girl_ when I say that, but it's the true hazard of loving people whose careers hold some higher worldly purpose - you are _always_ going to come second to the job. I hated the fact that I _hated_ that fact. Because what the fuck, _of course_ saving the world mattered _more_ than whether or not Shaun was coming to bed on schedule.

So I grinned like nothing had changed between us - after and during all the fucking, I mean. I continued to annoy Shaun at his desk and rallied the ladies into the usual fight. Get Shaun to eat something. Get Shaun to get some sleep already. Get Shaun to say my name.

Get Shaun to look at me.


End file.
